


It May Be That the Gulfs Will Wash Us Down

by antimonyandthyme



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, warnings: minor character death, with SnK lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24707902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antimonyandthyme/pseuds/antimonyandthyme
Summary: Erwin finds his duties as scribe mostly pleasant, except for the part where he has to constantly redo the blessings on a certain knight’s armour.
Relationships: Levi/Erwin Smith
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	It May Be That the Gulfs Will Wash Us Down

These days, each armour takes a couple of hours to complete, each shield a couple more, and each sword will last him well past twilight. Erwin misses the days in-training as a scribe, when he’d only been expected to inscribe the simpler blessings and protective charms on the knights’ equipment. Now he’s entrusted with the most complex runes, the ones that ward off disease, curses, and possession. It’s not a job he begrudges; Erwin will work at it with fervour if he can keep their knights even a little safer on their missions.

But, as he adds a subtle brushstroke on the hilt of a blade, eyes squinting in the lamplight, his hand cramped from straining to hold his brush steady for the better part of the day, the fatigue bears on him ever the stronger. This is the fourth time this moon he’s had to rework the spells on a particular knight’s weaponry. It’s not unheard of for the blessings to fade quicker if a sword sees battle frequently. Even then, with the layers of magic Erwin carefully weaves into his inscriptions, they should last months. Not days. 

Distantly, Erwin wonders what dangers the faceless knight is put through, and a thread of worry worms itself under his skin. It lodges there, insistent, unfounded and unwanted as it may be. So he drags himself from his chair, and makes his way out of the castle. 

The night air bites his skin, but Erwin strides purposefully forward, toward the statue of the goddess in the open courtyard. He is no priest, so the recitations don’t come easily, and he struggles uselessly against the humble posture he presents as he kneels. But the image of the armour he’s come to know so well flits into his thoughts. Smaller than the others, but battle-worn and proud, steel ringing soundly of her master’s exploits, yet oddly vulnerable in his hands. 

Erwin clasps his hands together and prays. For the spells he binds into the steel to hold true. And for the knight to come home. 

\--

The knock on his door is light, but insistent. Erwin pushes aside the flicker of annoyance at the interruption as he considers the unfinished bronze shield. This platoon will be sent to the swamps past the wetlands, where Kappas have begun to threaten the village’s children. A moderate threat, the knights under Mike will likely have no trouble eliminating the infestation. Erwin will take no chances however, and he intends for the shields to hold all the necessary precautions against marsh water and poison.

“Come in,” he says, setting his brush carefully aside. A single careless stroke will ruin the afternoon’s work, and he’s made the mistake of knocking over a wayward pot of ink one too many times. 

The man at the door slips in, and Erwin blinks. He had gauged the knight’s stature from his armour, but still, the presence before him takes him by surprise. Absently, Erwin thinks of moonlight over ice pools, and Rowan trees at the edge of the dark forest, life where there should be none. Death-forged, but goddess-blessed.

The knight clears his throat, averting his eyes. “It’s come to my attention that I’ve been causing you trouble.”

Erwin tips his head, amused. “Oh?”

“Well,” the knight continues, scuffing his boot on the worn carpet, then frowning at the dust he inadvertently kicks up, “Hange—uh, our blacksmith—told me that I’ve been defiling the blessings on my equipment on a regular basis, on account of my. Blatant disregard for safety.”

“Ah,” Erwin quirks a smile. “And once again, I see you’ve already scorched the fire runes clean off the left flank of your armour.”

The knight scowls mutinously at the dust on the ground. Then says, stiffly, “I came to thank you. The dragon’s fire only grazed me.”

Erwin shakes his head, stepping closer to the knight. “More to do with your skill than mine.” He stares in dismay at the runes he painted on a fortnight prior. They were for witchfire, not dragon breath, a mistake as easy to make as any, with just two delicate brushstrokes differentiating them. No wonder they burned clean off. “Forgive me,” he exhales, frustration at his own ineptitude curling harshly around his throat. “I’ll have to redo your armour.”

The knight reaches forward, lays a gentle hand on his arm. “They helped. Believe me.”

Erwin stills under his touch, and the knight hastily withdraws his hand. “Not nearly enough.”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” the knight shrugs. “In any case, I don’t have the luxury of time. I’m setting off tomorrow on a follow up expedition to the Shiganshina mountains.”

“Then I’ll finish these by tonight,” Erwin insists. 

“Stubborn,” the knight comments.

“Reckless,” Erwin shoots back. 

They glare at each other before the knight breaks his gaze. “Fine,” he grits out, reaching for the straps around his back, and unbuckling his armour with deft ease. Erwin tries not to stare at the fine bones in his hands. “But you’ll let me clean your workroom in return. It’s _filthy_.”

\--

Captain Levi, as it turns out, is near obsessive over the state of his carpet. And his neglected windowsills. And the grime under his table. He mutters curses under his breath, something along the lines of _Do all scribes live in such a state, a disgrace, really, how do people work like this_ , even as Erwin looks on with growing exasperation. 

“My time’s been monopolized by a certain knight recently,” he reminds, and Levi bristles and scrubs at the windows with renewed vengeance. 

_Slob_ , Erwin thinks he hears, but he can’t be sure. He narrows his eyes and concentrates instead on the knight’s battered armour. Dipping his brush in indigo blue ink, he begins with the protective writings against fire, each swirl adding depth to the spell. He uses vermilion for the edges of the runes, sealing them with the blessings of the goddess. And then, even though they are always in short supply, Erwin breaks out the gold-spun ink, tracing a second line over each original stroke for power, the hardest inscription to do. 

He stops to find Levi glancing at him. “Those look different than before.”

Erwin shifts; Levi would notice, of course. But he can’t mention that scribes rarely use gold. That it’s meant only for the King’s armour. And that he feels Levi would benefit far more from its use than a King who sits within the safety of these walls. So he mutters a simple incantation, disguising the shimmering strokes to dull grey, and thinks of an excuse.

“I added to their strength. On account of your blacksmith’s assessment of your very own sense of self-preservation. Or lack thereof.”

“Tch,” Levi scoffs, but amusement flashes quick in his eyes. “Dragons are no real threat.”

“The ones that live in Shiganshina have been known to attack humans.”

“Only when they get too close to their nests,” Levi shrugs. “If you choose to live close to the mountains, you’ll have to respect the creatures that share your home.” 

Erwin smiles. Goddess-blessed indeed, to speak of dragons with no fear in his eyes; how many knights can do the same? Perhaps he hadn’t needed to bother with the gold. 

He returns to Levi’s sword, brush moving in familiar strokes. Levi resumes with the dusting of his shelves. The silence stretches out between them, comfortable, content. 

\--

Erwin keeps abreast of the missions their knights are sent on, though there is inevitably a sense of dread when he witnesses their return. He’s come to know each one of them through their armour, and every loss weighs him heavy with guilt.

Rico’s. Nanaba’s. Thomas’. He wonders if an additional rune could’ve prevented their deaths. 

The crowds have swarmed the square, and Erwin’s glad for his little spot in the overlooking alcove, where he can watch without being trampled by over-eager spectators. He doesn’t come often, but today they celebrate a significant victory, a peaceful conclusion to the squall in Shiganshina. The dragons have moved further up the mountains, taking their young with them, and the villagers have chosen to abandon the rice fields encroaching in their territory in return. 

Erwin spots Levi at the head of his troops, leading them on horseback. The women cheer his return, and the men salute him heartily, and through it all Levi just looks annoyed, as if hoping the procession would hurry up and be done with itself. Erwin’s heart swoops with something a lot like fondness. The surly expression suits him well.

The knock on his door later doesn’t surprise him, but a pleasant warmth fills him regardless. He tries to chalk it up to the relief he feels when he sees Levi hale and whole. 

“Tch,” is what Levi says in greeting, though it sounds friendly. “Why so happy?”

Erwin beams, unable to stifle his happiness. “You’ve returned safe. Why else?”

“Thanks to you,” Levi mumbles, and only now does Erwin notice his armour. The inscriptions have held, though Erwin spies the minute breaks in the boundaries of the runes, testament to the power they stood against. “You. You’re truly skilled.”

Erwin leads him in, and Levi settles himself by the window, tutting at the newly formed layer of dust. It’s funny how out of place he appears in the large chair, slouched low, eyes narrowed, as if braced against the world. But then he begins to unbuckle his bracers, greaves, and then his breastplate, placing them carefully an arm’s length away. It’s unsubtle, and deliberate, and Erwin recognizes the gesture for what it is, a measure of trust that Levi chooses to shed armour in his presence. How tempting it is to reach out and help, to touch, but Erwin buries the itch and busies himself instead with making tea. 

“They attacked you, then?”

“Of course,” Levi shrugs. “Hornbacks breathe fire first and ask questions later.”

Erwin hands Levi a cup, with no milk but a dash of sugar. Levi blinks owlishly, but doesn’t question how Erwin knew. “And how did you convince them you meant no harm?”

“I dropped my shield.”

Erwin startles, setting his own cup down with a clatter. The tea sloshes over the rim, but Erwin barely feels the scald of the liquid. “Come again?”

Levi lowers his gaze. His voice is quiet and a touch reverent. “Like I said. You’re truly skilled.”

“You—” Erwin stops abruptly, before the agitation can take hold of his tongue. He can’t decide if he should be furious at Levi’s recklessness.

But then Levi shakes his head. “Erwin. I was never in any real danger.”

“Fool,” Erwin admonishes, but the bite of his tone is softened by the wry twist in his lips. Levi tested the strength of his spells against a Hornback’s flame, had faith in Erwin’s abilities to believe he’d withstand the fire of a dragon. It’s a compliment of the highest order. Or it’s utter folly, Erwin doesn’t know yet which one. “I now understand why your armour needs constant upkeeping.”

A gentle flush blooms on Levi’s cheeks, and in the dim light of the candle he looks almost shy. He shoves a weighted, wrapped package into Erwin’s hands with little finesse. “Here,” he mutters, speaking directly to his teacup. “For the constant upkeeping.”

It’s a necklace, with a delicate yet robust chain wrought from white gold, linking down to a brilliant emerald, winking in the turn of the light. Erwin’s breath catches. Such craftmanship no longer exists. There’s only one place Levi could’ve procured such a treasure. 

“You speak of my skill,” Erwin says unsteadily, “but here you have separated a dragon from his gold.” 

Levi smiles then, a fleeting, stunning thing. He sets aside his cup, and reaches for the necklace, and Erwin lets his heart thunder as Levi fixes it carefully around his neck. 

\--

It becomes a regular thing for Levi to come by, bearing souvenirs in exchange for tarnishing his weaponry. He brings back a bottle of pure amber ink from the Eastern shore front, which the locals create from grinding sun-dyed coral and pearl together. It would’ve cost a fortune, but a grateful merchant had bestowed it to the Captain for eliminating the sea serpents festering Stohess bay. Erwin’s breathless with excitement, amber being the closest substitute for gold there is, and he spends the better part of the afternoon studying the shine of the ink, while Levi rolls his eyes and makes comments about scribes being dorks. 

Then glowing faerie dust from the Forest of Giant Trees, stored in coarse hemp pouches, a gift from the wood creatures for brokering an armistice between the dryads and elves. “What does one do with faerie dust,” Erwin ventures warily. 

“What does one _not_ do,” Levi says with a leer, and goes on to detail the many uses of said dust, each one progressively dirtier and more depraved than the last.

Then pastries, chocolates, and dried fruits from the Trost bakeries, enough to keep Erwin’s sweet tooth satisfied for a moon, and more than enough for Erwin to worry about the line of his belly. He makes the mistake of mentioning that to Levi, who only raises an eyebrow, rakes his gaze searchingly over Erwin, and says brusquely, “You look fine to me,” leaving Erwin flushed and aching deep in the confines of his chest. 

He gets used to the soft, unobtrusive sounds of Levi’s cleaning while he burns the midnight oil painting protective inscriptions on pieces of armour. No wine is needed to loosen Erwin’s tongue in his presence, so he speaks of his father, of the Court and the politics that sully her, of the day-to-day hustle within the narrow confines of the halls. Levi listens as if each word from his mouth is something precious, interrupting only when Erwin’s thoughts trail inevitably toward the morose. 

In return Levi talks about the squad he leads, and Erwin grows familiar with Eld, Petra, Oluo, and Gunther, and comes to understand their strength and compassion on the battlefield as if he rode with them himself. When Levi describes his travels, Erwin closes his eyes and secretly allows himself the bitter taint of imagination, wandering freely under a swollen blue sky across never-ending plains, with not a wall in sight for miles. Then he remembers the knights, and the duty he bears to them and the Fallen, and the reminder is as stinging as plunging awake from a nightmare.

Through it all, Levi remains a comfort, and Erwin can no more deny the longing that seeps into his bones any more than he can deny himself breath. His gaze drifts from the burnished shields before him to Levi’s shoulders as he hangs freshly washed tapestries back up onto the walls. He memorizes the slope of Levi’s back. Sometimes he wonders if Levi can tell, if he can taste the desperation of Erwin’s thoughts swirling in the dust motes of the room. Most times, he’s glad Levi doesn’t call him out on it.

Attachment feels ruinous, especially one to a knight. Each time Levi departs on an expedition, Erwin finds himself back at the statue in the courtyard, hands clasped forcefully in prayer. In those moments, he thinks he can comprehend why the priests devote their lives to solitude, in service of an infallible, everlasting deity. But then Levi, human as he is, somehow cheats death and returns, again and again, seeking him out like a ship to harbour, eyes narrowed and restless until they meet Erwin’s.

Erwin’s heart trembles with abandon at the door, and as he gathers Levi in for tea, he chooses not to think of anything beyond his hidden desire, grateful already for all he has been allowed to have. 

\--

Mike visits when Levi’s platoon is away for a routine inspection at Krolva. Erwin dares to let a smile split his face, because in the wake of Nanaba’s passing came a time in which he saw neither hide nor hair of his friend, and all he could grasp was blame in the gaping absence. But here Mike’s eyes are bright and fond, and he pulls Erwin close, sniffs at his neck in that familiar way of his, and says, “You seem happier.”

“Do I,” Erwin says mildly, even though he knows how obvious it must be. There are odd trinkets scattered all over his workroom, his shelves are devoid of dust, and Mike can surely smell the faint aroma of candied nuts hidden in the back of the cupboard. 

Mike hums, choosing to ignore the emerald hanging around Erwin’s neck and swiping an innocent finger across the squeaky-clean windowsill instead. “Of all the people he’d court.”

“What—” Erwin stutters, at loss for words for once in his life, causing Mike to chuckle at the sorry sight he makes. “You’re mistaken, of course.”

“Of course,” Mike agrees amiably, permitting him the grace of denial. He steps back from the window, an amused curve in his lips. 

Mike steers the conversation to the new recruits from the 104th. They’re a promising and eager cohort, and already he can see one or two of them rising to the station of Captain. Just last week, he’d led a select few out on their first mission to subdue the ruckus in the underground tunnels, and had laughed his way through the entire task as the cave trolls chased and bullied the rookies about. These days, all they seemingly have to fret about are minor disturbances by disgruntled, harmless individuals. On excursions to their borders, they’ve been received with hospitality from Marleyans and magical creatures alike, and talk of war has finally faded among the people. 

“Almost too good to be true,” Erwin murmurs, a wary note in his voice. It’s been long since he allowed himself to hope for an era in which he could finally cast his magic and dealings with the devil aside. 

“Almost,” Mike sighs, looking suddenly tired. “I didn’t want to burden you with this.”

“Mike,” Erwin says, almost chiding. “Tell me.”

“It’s faint, but the air smells sour,” Mike says gravely. “And the winds carry news of something foreign. Something dangerous. They’ll be here soon.”

Erwin sits thoughtfully, absorbing the information. Some have been blessed by the goddess with senses that supersede reason, and vague though it may be, Erwin has never known Mike to be wrong. He resigns himself when he says, “I will prepare accordingly.”

Mike grips his shoulder tight. “I’m sorry, Erwin.”

Erwin lets out a short, humourless laugh. Self-pity doesn’t sit right with him, but it twists his words today, makes him callous. “Is it not I who should be sorry?”

Slowly, Mike’s hand falls from him. “You fault yourself for their deaths.”

“I do,” Erwin confirms, because he is orchestrater and executioner, and no illusion of peace will wash the blood from his hands. Is it not he who details the use of their lives down to the specific rune painted on every armour, in so determining who should perish? 

“I never did,” Mike offers quietly, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. Erwin may be undeserving of such compassion, but Mike has always been kind. “Nanaba offered her heart, as I have, for Eldia to use as she sees fit.” 

Erwin flinches at the mention of Eldia, perceiving momentously who the true wielder of Mike’s loyalty is. He knows Mike means, _My body is a coin for you to spend, Erwin, our knights will surely ride into hell at your bidding_. Erwin wants to weep from the atrocity of it all. “Stop,” he croaks weakly, because he can bear no more. “Please.”

Mike nods, acquiescing gently. He stands to leave, and Erwin follows him woodenly, sorrow deadening his steps. At the door however, Mike straightens before him, a hand over his heart in an absolute, devastating salute. Erwin returns it, fist clenched so tight his nails dig crescents into his palm. 

Mike smiles at him then, warm and at peace. “Courage, my friend,” he urges. “Take comfort where it is found.” Something shifts in the air, and Erwin recognizes this moment as the last he’d spend with his oldest friend. 

He finds no rest after. Erwin thinks of Levi and of pawns, of lowly scribes who play god, and the loneliness and longing takes him so hard that he shakes, moaning wretchedly into the silence of the night. 

\--

Erwin stays away from the alcove when the knights return from Shiganshina. The survivors are shell-shocked, stumbling through the gates on shaky limbs, eyes sunken with horror and abject loss. The blessings on their armour served no cause. They were wiped out but for a handful. Mike gave his life to let the recruits escape. 

Titans, the creatures are so named. They have no purpose, no intellect. They ignore the dragons in the mountains and unleash their all-consuming desire for human flesh upon the villages. News travels fast and far, and the politicians wring their hands stupidly. The people wail and despair; divine judgement, for straying from the goddess. 

Erwin only wants to burn the temples to the ground.

The King decrees for the inscriptions on his robes to be reworked. The nobles crowd him with their selfish, insignificant demands. Erwin thinks of Mike, and feels hate in its unadulterated, most terrifying form. He runs out of gold ink within two days. 

And still their armies are destroyed, all around the borders as the titans press in further. Erwin can’t bring himself to think of Levi, not when the broken pieces of armour collect at his workshop like a mountain of corpses. He doesn’t let himself look for too long, for the temptation to search for anything familiar in the ragged pile is too great. Instead, he directs the blacksmiths to salvage what is useable, and the rest of the scribes to paint on the most fundamental of protective runes. Too little is known of the titans for anything else. The knights who return are sent back again into battle, almost naked in their unpreparedness.

Shiganshina falls, and Wall Maria is on the verge of collapse. The Court calls for him now.

Their course of action is so predictable that Erwin wants to curse at them for their simple-mindedness. He restrains himself from futile actions, listening stiffly as they talk about sacrifice for the greater good of the Kingdom. The troops will be withdrawn from the outer districts; _no point in wasting knights on them_ , one of the men in the room says dismissively, and Erwin comes the closest he has ever to shouting. He argues where he can, highlights the flaws in their useless plans. _Pulling back will only slow the titans’ advance. Be assured that they will reach the inner walls. What happens when the defense crumbles there? What then, when you realize too late you are cattle waiting for slaughter?_

All eyes in the room turn to him, and Erwin swallows around the viciousness of his words. The general of the garrison considers him with the air of a philosopher bartering concepts with a beggar. _You’ll have figured out the proper inscriptions for our armour by then, won’t you?_

Erwin lets out a slow, shuddering breath. What he says next will surely dictate the tides of their tragedy, as it has so many times before. He imagines his father by his side, his lessons on patience and fortitude. He imagines Mike with a hand on his shoulder, saying _I don’t blame you_. He allows himself a moment to regret ever meeting a knight. 

His voice is steady when he speaks again. “Give me Captain Levi’s platoon. I will station them at Trost.” Erwin ignores the dissenting outcries and stares each one of them down, gathering his magic and wits about himself as he would a cloak. Duty and heartbreak war on the battlefield of his conscience, and he knows which one will win out. “The outer gates must stand,” he declares, and the room falls silent in his conviction and authority. “Give me Levi’s strength, or humanity falls.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Title taken from Tennyson's _Ulysses_.  
> 2\. It's that time of the year again, where I cry about Erwin. Oh boy.  
> 3\. I hope you enjoy, comments are much appreciated!


End file.
